DARK DREAMS Read online

  The man’s dark brows drew down as he flipped his cards over. “Look. It’s been the same rubbish for the past four hands. Why, I even have the T’En rogue again!”

  “The fall of the cards—”

  “The cards fall in such a way that you win.” Jacolm sat forward. “How else do you know what everyone holds in their hand?”

  The spectators gave a collective gasp. Tulkhan sensed their speculative appraisal of Imoshen. Perhaps it was possible to use her gifts to manipulate the fall of the cards. He wondered whether he should intervene.

  Several of his men looked past Imoshen to him, obviously expecting their General to respond. The day after tomorrow Imoshen would be his wife; any criticism of her character was a slight on his honor. His body tensed but he ignored the instinctive urge to declare her innocence.

  If a man were accused of cheating in Gheeaba, it would be up to him to prove his honor, but Imoshen was a woman and so unable to accept Jacolm’s challenge or offer challenge of her own. Tulkhan hesitated. There were no precedents to guide his actions.

  “You are mistaken, Jacolm,” Imoshen announced, her voice icy. “I would never use my T’En gift for such a paltry purpose.”

  Tulkhan saw the man flinch.

  “So you say,” Jacolm mocked.

  Imoshen made an impatient noise in her throat. “Cariah, have I been using anything other than my wit and skills?”

  Tulkhan saw the redheaded beauty swallow and lift her chin. He could tell she was preparing to lie.

  “How would I know?” Cariah gestured as if bored by the whole thing. “I have not seen Imoshen do anything other than count the cards and anticipate what people have in their hands by what they have played.”

  “Thank you for your support,” Imoshen said dryly.

  Tulkhan knew by her tone that she was rebuking Cariah, but he did not know why. If Imoshen was not cheating, why was Cariah lying? Before Tulkhan could ponder this, Jacolm rose, telegraphing his intention to challenge Imoshen’s word. To offer challenge to a mere female would demean Jacolm, but Tulkhan realized Jacolm’s honor would not allow him to back down.

  Everything slowed as Tulkhan stiffened. Cheating or not, he had to defend Imoshen’s honor. He had to redirect the challenge.

  Before Jacolm could speak Tulkhan stepped forward. “Are you offering insult?”

  “There has been no insult offered,” Wharrd interjected soothingly. This was strictly true; no formal challenge had been laid down because Tulkhan had intervened before it could get that far.

  Imoshen ignored Wharrd. Coming to her feet she glanced from Tulkhan to Jacolm. “What goes on here?”

  “I am merely asking this man if he offers challenge,” Tulkhan ground out.

  Jacolm’s resentful eyes studied the General.

  “If insult is intended it is to me, not to you,” Imoshen snapped.

  “Any insult offered my wife is an insult upon my name. A challenge,” Tulkhan told her. Then he returned his attention to Jacolm, trying to read the man’s next move.

  Silently Sahorrd rose and moved around the table to stand behind his sword-brother.

  With all his being Tulkhan willed Imoshen to remain silent. Anything she said now was bound to inflame Jacolm. Imoshen was but a heartbeat from death for Jacolm was one of his finest swordsmen. A muscle jumped in the man’s cheek. Tulkhan sensed he was close to losing control. There was no chance of a formal duel here. Knowing Jacolm, he would favor the soldier’s solution—challenge offered, accepted, and honor decided on the spot.

  “There is no cause for insult to be offered. No need to challenge.” Wharrd came to his feet. “I have been watching the cards. No one can cheat this old campaigner.”

  Imoshen drew a slow breath. “And I choose to take no insult. Jacolm does not know me. I would use my T’En gift to save a life, yes, but to win a game of chance, never!”

  With a few brief sentences she had placed the man in the wrong and forgiven him. Tulkhan could sympathize with Jacolm as he bristled.

  Cariah rose. “Supper is being served.”

  The sudden influx of servants carrying trays of food broke the stalemate. Imoshen turned her back on Jacolm with deliberate casualness, but her expression when she met Tulkhan’s eyes was anything but casual.

  She was furious. Not with Jacolm, with him.

  Why? He had been about to defend her at the risk of losing one of his best men.

  His body thrummed with unresolved tension as he escorted Imoshen to the sideboard where the servants had laid out the food. Every dish was a masterpiece of presentation, food sculpted to form animals, birds in flight, or intricate pieces of T’En architecture. Every morsel was a surprise to delight the palate.

  Imoshen’s fingers trembled ever so slightly as she poured wine for them both, but no one except Tulkhan saw this.

  All around them people talked animatedly, but their chatter was too bright and their smiles forced. They skirted Tulkhan and Imoshen, while appearing to defer to them. At the same time the General knew that every ear was strained to catch their conversation and every malicious eye was trained on them to observe the undercurrents revealed by their gestures.

  “Wine, General?” Imoshen offered him a crystal goblet.

  His fingers tingled when they brushed hers and his temples ached as though a storm were about to break. Experience told him the power was moving within her.

  “Since when did my honor cease to be my own?” She spoke softly so that only he could hear.

  Her low, intense question startled him. “The day after tomorrow you will be my wife—”

  “Bond-partner. Equal!” she hissed, turning her back to their audience. In a gesture that appeared affectionate she raised her hand and brushed a strand of hair from his throat.

  His body responded to her touch, but he found it disturbing because her eyes, which only he could see, held ice-cold fury. She was lying with her actions to hide the content of their conversation from those who watched them. Again he had to admire her, desire her . . . and fear her.

  “I will stand at your side, not behind you, General. If I am offered insult I will handle it, not you.” Her garnet eyes glittered with suppressed fury. “I am not your lapdog to be petted and protected from the real world.”

  Her words hit their target. For an instant Tulkhan stood in her shoes. He saw her difficult position and empathized with her against his will.

  With a nod of satisfaction, Imoshen turned away and moved gracefully along the length of the sideboard. She nibbled this and tasted that, pausing to speak with three minor Church officials then with Lady Cariah’s two sisters and the young Ghebite commanders who rarely left their sides. Those she exchanged pleasantries with smiled and deferred to her, but when she passed on, Tulkhan saw their relieved expressions. Something twisted inside him. Suddenly he pitied Imoshen, destined always to be an outsider.

  Amid the general conversation he caught the tone of Jacolm’s voice. His man was still angry. Sahorrd and a few others stood with him talking intensely, their gaze on Imoshen.

  Wharrd approached with Kalleen at his side. Tulkhan greeted them and they both glanced over at the angry group.

  “Jacolm’s a hothead,” Wharrd muttered. “He’ll grow out of it one day.”

  “Or it will kill him,” Tulkhan amended.

  Wharrd met Tulkhan’s eyes in silent acknowledgment.

  “He’s lucky T’Imoshen didn’t take insult,” Kalleen said.

  Again Tulkhan felt that uncomfortable shift in his perception. To Kalleen that was the encounter in a nutshell.

  Tulkhan was reminded how little he knew of this place and these people. A prickling awareness of menace moved across his skin. If sufficiently angered what was a Dhamfeer capable of? He had seen Imoshen furious and he had seen her frightened, but he had never seen her out of control. Or had he? He suddenly recalled a visual image so intense it seared his inner eye—two righting birds exploding in a ball of fire.

  Though Imoshen had refus
ed to discuss the cockerel fight, he knew that she had been outraged by its barbarity. When she discovered his men betting on the birds’ deaths, she had grown frighteningly still. He could see her now, standing across the pit from him, fierce eyes blazing. Then suddenly the birds had burst into flames.

  Tulkhan wanted to find her, to warn her of Jacolm’s hasty temper, to explain why honor was so important to his Ghebite commander.

  Searching above the heads of those present, Tulkhan could not see Imoshen’s distinctive silver hair. Impatience drove him. He took his leave of Wharrd and Kalleen and crossed the room slowly, forced to pause to engage in conversation several times. He realized he was projecting the same falsely casual air as Imoshen.

  Deliberately stopping beside Jacolm, Tulkhan clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder and passed a few innocuous words. They meant nothing. His real meaning was contained in the way he stood at their sides. He offered solidarity, and he saw his men understood as their expressions eased, conveying their relief.

  Leaving the crowded room, Tulkhan entered the relative quiet of the hall, felt the cool air on his face. One of Imoshen’s Stronghold Guard stood at the door. “Which way did Imoshen go?”

  The young man stiffened and inclined his head to the left. Tulkhan set off, wondering what he had said to offend the youth.

  He rounded a corner but did not see Imoshen. A servant approached. “Have you seen Imoshen?”

  With a nod of his head he indicated the direction from which he had come. “T’Imoshen is with the Lady Cariah.”

  Tulkhan managed a smile. He told himself it was a good sign that the old man felt secure enough in his presence to reprimand him for not addressing Imoshen with sufficient reverence.

  Keeping a tight rein on her anger, Imoshen had slipped from the crowded room at the first opportunity, intent on confronting Cariah. Rounding a corner she saw the other woman. “Cariah, wait.”

  From the way Cariah turned and met her eyes, Imoshen knew she had anticipated a confrontation. Imoshen nodded to an open door and the two women stepped into the darkened room.

  The only light came from the building across the courtyard. It spilled through the room’s floor-length windows onto the polished floor and illuminated a graceful stringed instrument. As if drawn to this Cariah glided over to stroke the sensual curve of the wood. Imoshen followed.

  “You alone could have defended me against Jacolm’s charge, Cariah. You chose not to.” She tried not to sound as hurt and betrayed as she felt.

  Cariah did not turn to face her; instead she looked out through the window, her voice the merest whisper. “What would you have me do?”

  “Confirm that I was not using my gifts to cheat at a foolish game of cards.”

  “You would have me reveal myself and risk ostracism— for what?” Cariah demanded raggedly. “Why should they believe me if they will not believe you?”

  Imoshen’s heart sank. She wanted to rail at Cariah, to complain at the unfairness of it all but . . . “You are right.”

  Cariah’s shoulders slumped.

  Imoshen stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I will not betray your secret.”

  Cariah shook her head. She pushed Imoshen away and sank onto the seat next to the harp. “You make it hard for me not to love you.”

  Imoshen gasped. “All I ask is that you be my friend.”

  A short, bitter laugh escaped Cariah. She brushed the tears from her face, then her hands traveled over the instrument’s vertical strings, absently plucking them, drawing sweet notes into the air.

  Imoshen watched Cariah’s graceful fingers, the elegant line of her throat. “How can you hide your T’En gifts so well?”

  “Years of practice.”

  Fraught silence hung between them. Then Cariah sighed. “My gifts are negligible so it was easy. I vowed when my mother died never to reveal the depths of my T’En inheritance. Can you imagine what it was like living in my own Stronghold, constantly watched by Father and the servants, aware that one unconscious slip would see me a prisoner, locked away as my mother had been?”

  “I am sorry.”

  “So am I.” Cariah caressed the strings. “I have only one acceptable gift and that I use sparingly.”

  Imoshen touched her fingers. “Play for me, Cariah. First as you would play for them, then for me alone.”

  Cariah met her eyes, then nodded.

  * * *

  Tulkhan strode down the dimly lit hall. The palace was so complex that if he did not find Imoshen soon he would not find her until she was ready to be found.

  He froze as subtle T’En music drifted from the darkened room. Silently he slipped through the half-closed door. The room’s occupants were too absorbed to notice him. Curious, he stepped into deep shadow.

  He could see Imoshen as a tall silhouette outlined against the window, while Cariah was seated at an elegant, stringed instrument. Fingers poised, she paused, then ended the piece with a flourish. Tulkhan had learnt enough by now to know that the pauses were as important as the notes.

  “This time I play for you alone,” Cariah whispered. She stroked the strings with her fingers to create rippling waves of sound so sweet they flowed like water over Tulkhan’s skin, bringing tears to his eyes. He felt as if she were plucking the strings of his soul.

  Cariah’s fingers grew still and silence followed. At last Imoshen let out her breath in a long sigh. “How can you hold it back?”

  Silently Cariah looked up at Imoshen. Tulkhan could not see her face, only the back of her head.

  “Something so beautiful cannot be bad,” Imoshen whispered.

  Cariah stood. When she spoke her voice was cool, dispassionate. “I have chosen my path.”

  “But is it right to make yourself out to be less than you are so that you can be accepted?”

  Cariah’s laughter sounded as sharp as breaking glass.

  “You can talk!” Cariah flung at Imoshen.

  Tulkhan saw Imoshen’s shoulders stiffen. The two women confronted each other. He did not understand the point of their argument.

  “I am out of my depth.” Imoshen lifted her hands imploringly. “All I ask is your friendship and counsel.”

  Cariah shook her head slowly. The same hand which had drawn that hauntingly beautiful music from the strings lifted to tenderly caress Imoshen’s cheek. The intimacy of the touch made Tulkhan flinch. When he had suspected Imoshen of taking lovers, he had never thought to be cuckolded by a woman.

  “Is that all? Do you wonder that I must refuse?”

  “Cariah,” Imoshen pleaded.

  “No. You ask for more than I can give!” Abruptly she turned and strode towards the door, her eyes blinded by tears. Once Tulkhan had resented her, now he felt sorry for her.

  When the sound of her soft footfalls faded, Tulkhan returned his attention to Imoshen. She straightened, visibly gathering her composure, before walking towards him. As she stepped into the dim shaft of light, Tulkhan moved, slamming the door closed.

  As suddenly as he had moved she was gone.

  While he strained to see her, he registered that familiar metallic sensation. Fear closed a cold hand around his heart. “Imoshen?”

  “Tulkhan?”

  He identified her tall, dark shape amidst the shadows where a moment before he could not see her. His skin prickled unpleasantly.

  Silence hung between them. He felt vulnerable, exposed by the beauty of the music and the intimacy of the scene he had witnessed. When he made no move to speak, she took a step closer.

  “Why are you here, General?”

  He closed the distance between them and lifted his hand to cup her cheek as he had seen Cariah do. He wanted to claim her with a kiss of slow, lingering intensity, to taste her lips and savor her response.

  Her hand closed over his, then she used gentle pressure to break the contact. “Don’t. I cannot think when you touch me.”

  The admission made his blood race. “Nor I.”

  The r
awness of his tone surprised him. He heard Imoshen’s quick intake of breath. He wanted to pursue that breath, to feel her gasp at his touch. Driven, he sought her lips. Just one kiss, he told himself.

  But he knew it would never be enough when she opened at his touch, sweetly giving. She was the elixir of life, intoxicating and vital.

  With a little moan Imoshen broke contact. “Why did you follow me, General?”

  He knew he should warn her about Jacolm but he didn’t want to destroy the intimacy of this moment. Yet questions begged to be answered. “What is there between you and the Lady Cariah?”

  She turned her face from him.

  “Imoshen?” he asked gently.

  She sighed. “Nothing that I can share with you.”

  “But you share something with her? What unnatural creatures you are!”

  She gave a snort of disbelief. “And the love your men share as sword-brothers is somehow more honorable?”

  When he gave no answer she went to walk past him. He caught her arm, fighting the urge to pull her to him and bend her will with the force of his need for her. “What do you plot with Cariah? Answer me!”

  Her eyes were dark pools in her pale face. She gave no answer, no denial.

  He tightened his hold on her. “Imoshen? You tell me to trust you. How can I?”

  Sadly, she mimicked his earlier action, cupping his jaw in her hand. Her lids lowered as she leant close enough to brush her lips across his. “Trust must be given.” Her breath dusted his face.

  He returned the kiss. “Earned, not given. I will not have secrets between us.”

  She pulled back. “So you say. But it is not my secret to share with you. Let me go, General.”

  It was on his lips to deny her. As if sensing this she twisted her arm, breaking his hold.

  “We of the T’En value our word,” she told him.

  “You speak in riddles. You cannot expect me to trust blindly. I was ready to support you against my own man tonight—”

  “That Jacolm is trouble. My honor is my own to—”

  “Anything you do or say reflects on me,” he told her.